


foolish as this lovelorn heart may be

by tisapear



Series: love drunk [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s02e17 Heart, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Pining, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/pseuds/tisapear
Summary: "He got a few scotches in and then he started hitting on anyone in a five mile radius. You know the type.""Yeah. I do, actually."Big brother gets handsy when drunk. (Little Sammy's heart can only take so much before the tiny thing can no longer put itself back together.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: love drunk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761214
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	foolish as this lovelorn heart may be

**Author's Note:**

> The way Sam looks during that conversation there's _no_ way Dean's never hit on Sam when he was drunk. Like, damn.

Nose-curling whiskey stink and eye-watering cigarette burn and a wet mouth in the crook of his neck. His brother's arm is slung over his shoulder, hair tickling the side of his throat. Goosebumps on his exposed collarbone and Sam gives the back of Dean's leg a kick. 

"C'mon Casanova, you always let them do all the work?" Heaves his brother up a little higher and ignores the bright red lipstick staining the skin behind Dean's ear. (A warning sign, an obvious mark; one he could so easily lick off and absorb as his own 'cause how dare she when she has _no right—_ ) 

Dean mutters something unintelligible but stands up straighter—or at least tries to, somehow manages to shuffle one of his feet between Sam's in the process, gets them both off-kilter. But there's a wall right beside them and Sam lets them crash against it, keeps himself and his brother upright with his shoulder and hip against the dirty concrete. 

Bites his lip and presses his eyes closed at the feeling of Dean's fingers, snuck under his hoodie and now caressing his shoulder, lazy-soft warmth against the bare flesh, calloused fingertips etching promises into the dip between neck and shoulder. Lets his breath shudder through his whole body at the feeling of Dean's rough tongue lapping at the salty sweat-film on his neck, strands of Sam's _girly hair, jesus, it's even as soft as one's_ pushed aside by Dean's nose, inhaling deeply. Lets himself enjoy the act for far too long before he shrugs Dean off, lets him fall against the wall on his own. 

Except he doesn't anticipate the too-coordinated (he drank his body weight in liquid poison, _how_ —) movement of his brother's fingers slipping through his belt loops and dragging him along, chest to chest and legs intertwined, one four legged, two hearted beast. 

(Don't remember that old story or you're gonna get stupid ideas again.) 

Sticky breath and sin-red faces—mirror images in the dead of night. His nose nudging against Dean's _eh I can leave it for a few more days_ stubble and his brother's fingers sneaking under his hoodie and across his stomach and his brother's lips against his temple and for a moment it's so perfect Sam could cry.

So he pushes himself off, licks at the want stuck in his mouth like bitter cough drops, staining his insides with transgression. Grips Dean by the upper arm and ignores his stumbling brother's protests.

"Don' hafta be s' rough, y'kno," Dean mutters, directed at his feet. Then he looks up and Sam's face is burning 'cause he knows the look Dean's sporting right now without catching a single glimpse of it.

(Broken record, stuck on repeat. Punishing him the worst way possible. His biggest dream come true except it's all a lie, liquor-induced and endorphin-high.) 

"'Course, if tha's th' way y'like it, baby bro..." Wraggles his eyebrows like it's all just one big joke to him, but keeps the invitation in the upward curling of his lips steady. 

Sam doesn't look over, his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Don't stray and there won't be any consequences, he thinks, except Dean doesn't just have a copy of the script, he invented it ages ago, let Sam learn by doing, and he's not about to accept Sam's disruption of his masterpiece so he yanks him to a halt, feet firmly planted to the street like he's ready to take root. 

Sam wants to cry, again, for entirely different reasons, now. 

Big brother's so cruel, even when he's not actually trying to be.

"Sam, Sam, _Sammy_ ," Dean whispers, reverently, and everything else is just leftover syllables stuck between his teeth but Sam's name rings clear as a bell. 

It's so unfair. 

"Yeah, Dean?" he forces out, eventually, doesn't turn around, Dean's hand still firmly gripping his wrist while Sam's pressing his free hand against his eyes until he sees stars. Maybe if he keeps the tears in long enough the salt will make him die of dehydration. 

Dean tugs on his arm until he's got Sam face to face, stares at little brother illuminated by the shitty fuck-me-quickly street light like he's God himself come down from heaven to spread his word to the unworthy crowds. 

(why him why him why) 

Dean leans in closer until Sam can _taste_ the whiskey-lies on the tip of his tongue, slurs, "Y're s' _preddy_ ," like it's matter of fact and not something he fished out of his booze-hazy brain to get a chance at a good lay. He pats Sam's cheek with his palm pressed flat, eyes half-lidded, is probably trying to look appreciative with the once-over he's giving Sam but really just comes off like he's trying to placate him. 

But then Dean leans forward the rest of the way, brushes his lips against the corner of Sam's ("so pretty, must be so _warm_ , so _tasty_ little brother") mouth and okay, _okay_ , he's gotta stop this now before they'll do something they're gonna regret tomorrow. 

( _False_ , so bold of him to lie to himself when he knows Dean would be the only one left with regrets come morning, and plastered as he is Dean might not even remember anything _to_ regret. And that, that's a thought far too alluring, one he's got to squash _right now_ before the inkling becomes a full-blown idea Sam can devote himself to. Dangerous waters he's treading at 3 am in some back alley shrouded in just-do-it, no-one-will-ever-know darkness.) 

Pinches Dean's side and wants to tug the offended yelp deep into the folds under his tongue (c'mon big brother, let's practice some mouth-to-mouth, no ulterior motive here, pinky swear). 

This time, when they make their way back to the motel, Dean comes along willingly. Even his senseless mumbling has ceased. 

But the inner-workings of Sam's messed up mind never sleep, an endless loop of might might-not. 

Dean's snoring away on the bed next to his, one still-shoed foot sticking out over the side, like an invitation, and Sam doesn't know how much longer he can do this, how much more he can take. Even strong-willed men become weak-minded at the constant picking of an infected wound. 

(Uncertain temptation dangled just out of his reach and he might fall if he were to stretch towards it, but at least he'd do it with certainty.)

**Author's Note:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, Sam "he's only hitting on me 'cause he's too plastered to see a difference between me and some pretty girl, no way he'd ever do it while sober" Winchester. 
> 
> And they say _he's_ the smart one.


End file.
